The Hydra of Crime
I write this under the neon glow seeping through my grime-streaked window. Another day bleeds into night, and I’m exhausted. Today I chased a mugger through the alleys of Berlin, my heart pounding against my ribcage. I caught him in the end – I always do – yet victory feels empty. Catching criminals in this city is like cutting the heads off a hydra; no matter how many I take down, more rise to take their place. Each arrest feels futile, a temporary triumph that barely dents the crime-infested streets.
Every night is the same routine:
- Spot the crime and race through neon-soaked alleys after the culprit.
- Struggle and fight in the shadows, adrenaline and fear coursing through me.
- Cuff the perp under flickering streetlights as acid rain begins to fall.
- Drag them to the precinct, drowning in paperwork before I return home alone.
A City of Ruin and Neon Gloom
The view from my apartment is a panorama of decay. Beneath a bruised purple sky, Berlin sprawls outward – a megacity devouring the last remnants of the old world. Towering high-rises studded with neon signs loom over derelict tenements. Once, people believed technology would save us; instead it betrayed us, further widening the chasm between rich and poor. In the distance, corporate skyscrapers glitter with opulence – exclusive enclaves of the elite, gated and pristine. Down at street level, flickering holograms and graffiti-covered walls mark the territory of the forgotten. The air tastes of soot and chemical rain. Nature is all but dead here. I can’t remember the last time I saw a clear blue sky or a real tree that wasn’t a charred stump or a plastic decoration.
They promised Berlin would be “climate neutral” by now, painting visions of a green utopia. How laughable that seems in 2077. The reality is toxic smog that blots out the stars. Acid rain hisses against the windowpane as I write, leaving oily streaks. The environment is ruined – decades of unchecked industry and neglect have seen to that. I was a child when they talked about saving the planet; now I’m an old man watching it rot.
The Spree River below is a ribbon of black sludge, its banks lined with shanty towns lit by barrel fires. Somewhere out there, a child goes to sleep hungry under a makeshift neon sign, while above, the wealthy dine in luxury high-rises, oblivious to the misery below. This city is a living organism feeding on the despair of its inhabitants, and I am one of its cells – trying to fight a sickness that has spread everywhere.
I sit in my gloomy apartment – a cramped one-room bunker up on the 12th floor of a decaying block in a gloomy district of Berlin. The electricity flickers every so often, casting jittery shadows across peeling walls. Water drips from a leaky pipe in the corner, counting out the seconds of the night. The only light comes from a neon billboard outside, its sickly pink glow blinking on and off, painting my walls with an eerie glow. Sirens wail in the distance (they’re always wailing somewhere in this city), and I can’t tell whether they’re from police cruisers or ambulance drones. Not that it matters; either way it means someone else is bleeding on the asphalt tonight.
Alone with Disillusionment
Now that I’m off the streets of Berlin and back home, the silence is heavy. I can finally hear the thoughts I’ve been running from all day. Disillusionment sits next to me like an unwanted guest. I feel it in my bones – a weight of knowing that despite all my efforts, nothing really changes. Years ago, I joined the force full of idealism, thinking I could protect the innocent and make this broken world better. I believed in justice. But justice here is a phantom that slips through my fingers every time I get close. I look at myself in the cracked mirror above the sink: eyes sunken, face lined with scars and exhaustion. The man staring back looks older than his fifty years. His badge lies on the table beside an empty glass; some nights, I wonder if I’ll even bother to pick it up in the morning.
I live alone – always have, probably always will. In this line of work, you learn to keep your distance. Friends, family, love – those are luxuries for a different time, a different man. I had a partner once (both on the force and in my heart), but the city took them from me. Violence is rampant, and it doesn’t discriminate who it kills or ruins. After a while, you stop letting people in because you can’t stomach losing any more. Loneliness is my only companion now. Sometimes I think it’s safer that way, yet on nights like this the isolation eats at me. I pour a finger of cheap synth-whiskey and raise a toast to no one, swallowing bitterness in the dark.
I find myself questioning why I continue this grind. What’s the purpose? Every arrest, every fight, every narrow escape – what difference does it make in a world this far gone? I’m just plugging holes in a sinking ship. The city’s corruption, the poverty, the endless cycle of crime – it feels unstoppable. Some days I’m not sure if I’m trying to save the city or just avenge it for what it’s done to itself, and to me. The gap between the rich and poor has become a yawning abyss, and I fear I’m on the wrong side of it no matter what I do. Being a cop in 2077 Berlin means serving a system that stopped caring about justice a long time ago. Am I truly helping anyone, or am I just another instrument of control in this dystopia?
And yet, beneath the layers of cynicism and exhaustion, a tiny spark refuses to die. Purpose – the hope of finding it keeps me alive, even if it’s just a faint ember. I tell myself that maybe, just maybe, my efforts stop one innocent from being harmed, or give someone a chance at a better life, however slim. Perhaps it’s a fool’s hope. Perhaps I continue simply because I don’t know what else to do. This badge, this gun, these tired legs – they’re all I have. I need to believe there’s a reason for all the blood, sweat, and sleepless nights. If I let go of that, then I truly will become as hollow as this city’s soul.
So I keep going. Tomorrow, I’ll get up and do it all again. I’ll chase another criminal through the neon-drenched streets of a city that has long since lost its way. I’ll play my part in this grim drama, even knowing it’s a losing battle. Because if I don’t – if people like me give up – then there’s really no hope left at all. In this broken world, chasing criminals might be futile, but it’s the only thing I know that gives me a sliver of meaning. It’s the thin line separating what’s left of the light from the encroaching darkness. And until that darkness swallows me whole, I’ll keep running, fighting, and hoping that one day, somehow, I’ll find a sense of purpose in the chaos.
